A shot in the dark

September 23, 2012

GLENGARY - Shooting sports in my eyes have always been things like basketball, hockey and soccer - games I've played.

Firearms, not so much.

In fact, never.

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Shooting competition

Not that I have anything against hunting - before the NRA gets up in arms. I used to operate the "family hunting camp" - spots on the floor for friends and family to sleep - when I resided in Northwestern Pennsylvania.

My own shooting experiences range far to the left.

Like that first shot I took with a bow - it zipped about 10 feet left of the target, through some bushes and into the neighbor's metal garbage can.

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When the second shot sailed about 10 feet to the right of the hay bales, through an upright on the swimming pool, that was my last shot, never getting that opportunity to be a middle-of-the-roader.

I almost tried to take aim again, though, the next time with a shotgun.

I never got off a shot. The police came; I was caught holding the gun.

My brother and a couple of his friends went off to shoot clay pigeons in an open field where they had fired their shotguns on previous occasions. I tagged along on that sunny Sunday afternoon.

They decided I would fling the targets, which I did for about an hour. One of them asked me if I wanted to try a shot.

Why not? I acquiesced.

They showed me how to operate the shotgun, and I was ready to go when the township officers arrived. In essence, they said we couldn't be shooting there and mentioned something about needing hunting licenses.

The policemen checked everyone's IDs - except mine. Not that I had one with me. Not that I looked like I even belonged there: The officer just glanced at me, had to think, "No way" and walked on by. Sandals were on my feet, and I wore clothing that looked like I had just come from the beach.

I kicked off the sand and finally got a shot off on Saturday.

And I finally hit the target, too.

On hand at the Peacemaker National Training Center for the FNH USA 3

Gun Championship, Journal photographer Ron Agnir and me were strongly encouraged by Jeannette Hanfling, public relations manager of the sponsoring company, to try our hand at shooting one of the company's firearms.

"It's fun," she said. "I never shot before I got this job. I love it."

I never shot until after I interviewed an assortment of officials and shooters on Saturday. I don't know if I love it or not. I was far too nervous and wide-eyed to appreciate the venture.

It's good thing the first-time butterflies in the stomach weren't something akin to clay pigeons. I might never have taken a shot.

My heart was still pounding over what I had done an hour later.

Ron, the "seasoned" veteran, said he used to shoot rifles with his father many, many years ago, so he was a bit comfortable.

"I had the advantage of going second," he said. "It was reading the greens in golf; I was more dialed in."

What was routine for most everybody out there was anything but for me.

And I had to deal with windy conditions that our personal instructor - the kind and patient Tabor Bright - explained would play tricks with the lighter-weight bullets we were firing from the SCAR 16S.

Was it a Bright idea to try to educate me?

First, though, Tabor, as cool about the rifle as anybody could be, explained the basic parameters of the rifle, tearing it down to display the workmanship and every facet of it. It was like he was trying to sell us a rifle.

All I wanted to do was shoot it.

I thought I wanted to shoot it. OK, try to shoot it.

Tabor explained that I needed to square my body - which is much like other sports. He showed how to position my hands and fingers. He went through everything.

"Are you ready?"

With the rifle in my hands, he kept telling me to put the crosshairs in the scope to the lower right side of what looked like a "lollipop" about 100 yards away to counteract the breeze.

First, though, I had to counteract the wind, which would come up at the very instant I was "dialed in" on the target and push the military-style rifle off the mark. Not that my shaking arms and hands weren't accomplishing that all by themselves.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I pulled the trigger. The bullet sailed high, over about a four-foot high orange square behind the actual target. (It wasn't until hours later that Ron told me the square wasn't the target, but the lollipop was.)

So I didn't even know what I was shooting at. Kind of like bows and arrows apparently.

I tried again after a long series of shakes and quakes trying to line up the lollipop. Miss. Then another miss.